


What Immortal Hand or Eye

by raphae11e



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Developing Relationship, M/M, Minor Injuries, Nightmares, hot and sad dads, someone please help them, that have Feelings (tm) for each other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-25
Updated: 2017-04-25
Packaged: 2018-10-23 22:22:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10728462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raphae11e/pseuds/raphae11e
Summary: After the destruction of Laketown and their battle at the foot of Erebor, Bard's nights are often spent sleepless, his heart heavy with the weight of his responsibilities. The last person he expects to receive comfort from is the proud, unapproachable King of Mirkwood.But life has a way of surprising him, as of late.





	What Immortal Hand or Eye

On the morning of the battle, Thranduil had ridden into Dale on an enormous white elk, its breath clouding the chilled air, and the man’s armor glinted blindingly silver in the morning sunlight. Bard had always known that elves were one for show, but he couldn’t stop himself from being a bit impressed.

And, of course, he had heard the tales of the king’s… _unnatural_ beauty. The tales often got out of hand, as they were known to do; despite their generally amiable alliance with Mirkwood, the men of Laketown were quick to concoct the wildest of stories. Some claimed that elves were capable of hypnotism, that they could bewitch a man to do whatever was asked of him.

As Thranduil had reined in his steed before Bard that day, eyes a piercing blue, bright and clear as stars, he thought that perhaps he could understand the root of those rumors. The king’s stare was hard and cold as they attempted to parley with Thorin Oakenshield. His general air of tranquil fury made standing next to him almost unbearable. _Gods forbid I ever find myself on the receiving end of that wrath_ , Bard thought grimly.

In the midst of the battle, he had lost sight of the Elvenking. The sheer number of people-- men and elves and dwarves and all kinds of fey creatures-- had made it nearly impossible to locate anyone. Bard’s first thought, of course, was of his children. Fighting his way through hordes of orcs, making his way to the center of Dale, he could only pray that they had been able to find a safe path out of the city.

As he rounded the corner and entered the main street he was met by a snarling mass of matted fur: a warg. It knocked him clean off his feet, pinning him beneath its huge body. Bard could feel its rancid breath on his face and, without thinking, he shoved his bow horizontally into the creature’s mouth like a bit. He bared his teeth in a snarl that mirrored the warg’s own. Then its claws caught his shoulder and he growled, his arms nearly giving way under the sudden wash of pain, his vision swimming--

All of a sudden, the warg was gone. The change was so abrupt that Bard blinked, disoriented, panting hard. A flash above him caught his eye, and he looked up to see the Elvenking standing over him.

The light had been noonday sun reflecting off of his armor, and now he stood with one sword buried in the warg’s throat, blood bubbling up out of the wound as it writhing violently. Thranduil was veritably _coated_ in blackened blood; it stained his mail, his weapons, and even his hair was sticky with it. When he turned to face Bard again, ripping his sword from the now motionless creature, his blue eyes were blazing.

In seconds the Elvenking was at Bard’s side, one hand gripping his uninjured bicep to haul him upright. The other hand pressed firmly against his ruined shoulder, making Bard hiss through clenched teeth, hands curling into fists as the pain intensified. He felt faint, spots blinking in the corners of his vision.

Then he realized Thranduil was muttering under his breath, words like the slide of water over river stones. _Sindarin._ The pain began to seep out of him as the quiet incantation continued; by the time Bard’s arm was released, it had dulled considerably. There would still be a scar, perhaps, and a bone deep ache for the next few days. But Bard had seen firsthand the power of elven magic, and it was not to be underestimated.

“Tread more carefully, Dragonslayer,” Thranduil said lowly. It almost sounded like teasing, a playful jab at-- at what, an _equal?_ Bard was baffled. Before he could think of a proper response Thranduil was stepping away, readying his blades, his teeth bared in a sort of feral smile. A shiver crept down Bard’s spine at the wild look in the king’s eyes.

With that last parting glance, the Elvenking turned his back and disappeared into the fray.

\---

After the battle, Bard had not seen Thranduil for weeks. He was far too preoccupied with his new status as Lord of Dale-- a title which he had accepted reluctantly-- to do much else. Homes needed rebuilding, food needed gathering, and the dead needed burying. Surely the Elvenking had his own needs to attend to; the army of men was not the only host that had suffered casualties.

Which is why Bard was surprised when he received word from an Elven messenger that he was requested in Mirkwood’s high court.

As he so often felt when dealing with elves, and with Thranduil in particular, Bard was at a loss. He couldn’t possibly fathom why his audience was required. There was so much that he still had to do in the wake of the Battle of Five Armies; leaving Dale seemed to be an unwise choice. But, then again, ignoring the summons of a king as powerful as Thranduil could be equally catastrophic.

His decision only took him a moment: he sent the messenger on his way with a letter of acceptance. He was expected in Mirkwood in two day’s time.

\---

Bard had never been one for pomp and circumstance, so he only chose a few trusted guards to travel with him. No use in bringing a whole entourage when he didn’t even know what he was being summoned _for._ Fewer travelers also meant that they made less of a stir as they worked their way through Mirkwood. Once they got close enough to the center of Thranduil’s territory they were met by a host of elves. They practically materialized out of the undergrowth, silent as the grave, until one of them addressed him quietly in the common tongue.

“My Lord.” Bard nodded in acknowledgement, though he still felt awkward at being addressed with such reverence.

Without another word his small group was led through the remainder of the dark forest-- and then the heart of the Woodland Realm emerged, like some great mirage, right in front of them. White as bone, the fortress seemed like it belonged to a completely different world. They passed over a bridge, under which they could hear the deafening thunder of running water, and through two enormous oaken doors.

The inner halls were every bit as beautiful as the outside. Every surface seemed to exude a soft glow, like sunlight filtering through leaves. In fact the whole _place_ reminded Bard of a forest. Carved columns rose up around him like trees stripped of their bark, so tall that he felt dwarfed in comparison. Moss and vines hung from the ceiling and walls above, peeking out of niches where shafts of light shone in from outside.

Bard could hardly keep track of the path they followed through the labyrinthine hallways, carved stairways made of wood and stone. Soon the space opened up again into a vast cavern. There was only one direction to walk from there: up the stairs to the throne. Even from here Bard could tell the seat of Mirkwood was elaborately furnished, and he sighed inwardly. _I should expect no less from Thranduil._

Sure enough, the Elvenking was reclining on his throne when Bard was announced, dressed in a green tunic that mimicked the lush forests of his domain. He inclined his head in greeting, and Bard could see that his crown was adorned with flowers. The first buds of spring.

“Welcome, Lord of Dale, Dragonslayer,” Thranduil intoned. Something in his voice suggested amusement; Bard was fairly certain the elf used that nickname with the sole intent of exasperating him.

“I… thank you for your courtesy, King Thranduil of the Woodland Realm.” It felt strange, using such formal wording after they had fought alongside one another, as equals. “But I must confess, I was not informed of the purpose for my visit.”

Thranduil raised one dark eyebrow. “Why, to cement our alliance, naturally. You have become the new lord, therefore any old agreements must be renewed. And it is best to do such things in person.”

 _Simple enough_ , Bard thought. He had not expected the explanation to be so simple, as no one had bothered to tell him before he arrived. Then again, was Thranduil not hundreds of years old? Perhaps such things didn’t occur to him, that not everyone was familiar with the diplomacy it took to be a king. Bard shook his head. He would never fully understand the inner workings of elven minds.

Their negotiations went surprisingly well: Mirkwood’s trade agreement with the people of Laketown-- now the people of Dale, he supposed-- was renewed. If Bard was sure of anything, it was that his relations with the elves would be much more… cordial than those of Laketown’s previous Master. After some time, however, all the political intrigue of the treaties and signed documents began to grow tedious. Bard was grateful when they finally convened for the night and he was dismissed.

He was shown to his chambers and provided with a meal there; Thranduil had informed him that there were other matters to attend to, so they would not be able to dine together. This detail had been explained in such a serious tone that Bard couldn’t help but wonder what required the king’s undivided attention. He didn’t dwell long on the thought, however, not when he was exhausted from his travels. For the first time in weeks, sleep came easily.

\---

His steps echoed against the sodden docks of Laketown. Houses crumbled like paper around him, licked by hungry flames, smoke staining their wood black. Bard could feel the heat of embers stinging his face as he fought his way through immense crowds of villagers, their eyes stretched wide in fear. Held tightly in his clenched fist was the Black Arrow.

The tower. He needed to reach the tower. And he needed to find--

“Da!” Bard stopped in his tracks, frantically scanning the throngs of people. His children. His children, where were they? Again the call came: “Da, please help!” It was Tilda’s voice, high pitched in terror, and Bard felt a thrill of fear run through him at the sound.

“I’m coming!” His own voice was hoarse, choked on the ash permeating the air. He gave one last glance at the tower ahead of him, looming over the flames, and changed his course.

No sooner had he taken two steps than he saw them, struggling against the stream of townspeople filling the docks. Sigrid had her arms wrapped protectively around the younger two; Bain’s face was screwed up in a valiant attempt at composure; Tilda had soot smudged across her cheek, her eyes welling with tears.

Sigrid spotted him a moment later. “Da!” she cried, echoing her sister. She reached a hand out to him. Both Bain and Tilda looked up too, relief flashing across their faces.

Then their expressions changed to ones of sheer horror.

Behind him Bard felt a rush of hot air, and he turned to see Smaug landing in the midst of the city. An earsplitting shriek rent the air as the beast’s enormous claws pulled tiles from roofs, his wings splayed out in a great, leathery canopy over the ruins of Laketown. Smaug’s throat began to glow bright, like the embers of a dying fire.

There was no time. He turned back towards his children and broke into a run, pushing past anyone who got in his way. Screams went up from the crowd as people realized what was about to happen and scrambled to find shelter.

His children clung desperately to his coat once he reached them. “We need to escape,” Bard explained, trying to hide the fear in his voice. If they didn’t move quickly, they would be--

Sigrid shook her head slowly. Her expression was so grave, so resigned, that she looked far older than her years. “We can’t,” she said. “There’s no time.”

“But--” Tears were spilling down Tilda’s cheeks now. “But he promised!” The look on her face as she gazed up at him threatened to tear his heart in two. “Da,” she begged. “Da, you said you would keep us safe.”

Bard didn’t have time to reply. Behind them Smaug roared, magnificent and terrible all at once, and the heat of the monster’s flames consumed them all. Hair smoked and burned, flesh melted away from bone. The pain was blinding, white hot in its intensity, until--

\---

He woke up.

Bard jolted forward in bed, chest heaving, shivering in a cold sweat. He fisted one trembling hand in his nightshirt. His breaths came in, in, but never out, shallow and rasping.

It took an eternity to slow his racing heart. With a miserable sound he curled himself forward, resting his forehead against his knees. His jaw hurt from clenching it in his sleep and his temples throbbed with the beginning of a migraine. Now that the nightmare was over, he couldn’t help feeling a bit ridiculous; all things considered, he had come out of the destruction of Laketown surprisingly well. Sigrid, Bain, and Tilda were all alive. Other than his own few injuries at the Battle of the Five Armies-- his memory of the warg attack flashed briefly through his mind-- they were all unscathed. That meant the world to him.

And yet, he still had these _dreams._ He still felt wary around large flames, like the bonfire that had been built to celebrate their victory in the battle.

With a resigned sigh, Bard swung his legs over the side of the bed. He wouldn’t get any more sleep tonight, so instead of lying awake in the dark, he would much prefer to be productive. Maybe a short walk would help him clear his head. And hopefully Thranduil wouldn’t mind him exploring Mirkwood’s halls in the middle of the night.

Once he was dressed, he stepped out into the hallway with a single candlestick-- and was surprised to find the place deserted. Mirkwood was eerily silent; its pale walls and columns reflected the moonlight shining through the windows, and its vast halls seemed to amplify even the quietest of sounds. His own footsteps sounded like those of twenty men as they rang out through the cavernous rooms.

He had assumed that there would be guards in place even during the night, in case something should happen. But, as he retraced the passageways he had been led through earlier, Bard realized that there were not even guards stationed in the entrance hall.

That was when he heard it: a soft, wavering sound hovering in the air, two timbred and strangely beautiful. Gooseflesh rose up and down his arms and he shuddered. Where was it _coming_ from?

Bard approached the huge doors of the palace and, at long last, found signs of life. A group of elves were moving slowly out into the forest, walking in pairs. He only caught a glimpse of a few of them before they were gone, the doors closing silently behind them.

Now his curiosity had been roused. As quietly as he could, Bard blew out his candle, disposing of it nearby, and made his way to the doors.

The sight that greeted him as he stepped outside nearly took his breath away.

There must have been hundreds of elves, gliding like ghosts between the dark trees. Many of them held lanterns that glowed with a strange, white light, nothing like the glow of a wax candle. From where Bard was standing, however, it hardly seemed like they needed the extra light. The elves exuded a sort of brightness themselves, dressed in pure white and silver, their skin pale in the moonlight.

And there was that sound again. Bard realized it was singing, and another shiver ran through his body. The eerie tune was beautiful, but it weighed heavy on his heart; for some reason, a part of him was able to tell that it was a sad song.

Without even making the decision consciously, he decided to follow the group. He flitted in and out from behind the trees, always keeping his distance in case he should alert someone to his presence. What could be so important that almost every elf in the Woodland Realm seemed to be present for it, he wondered? Bard couldn’t even begin to imagine.

They traveled for quite some time. In some places the forest grew to be so dark that Bard could hardly see what was in front of him, but eventually the forest path opened up into a wider, lighter space. The trees were larger here, and thicker around; they looked ancient. Their canopies formed a shelter overhead, and through the branches Bard was able to see the light of a million stars. Ahead of him the elves were winding their way towards the center of the clearing. As he trailed after the procession he noticed strange mounds placed under the trees, while others were scattered through the clearing or on the surrounding hillsides. They were small piles of stones, Bard observed, and were obviously placed very deliberately. Looking closer at them, they bore a striking resemblance to…

Bard stopped in his tracks. _Graves,_ he thought in amazement. _These are graves._ The thought that elves would even need such a thing had never occurred to him; if anything about the fair folk was well known amongst men, it was that they lived for hundreds, even thousands of years. Burials didn’t seem like a concern, for a race with such an unbelievably long lifespan.

Abruptly, he was reminded of the aftermath of the battle they had fought only months prior. He remembered the bodies strewn about the streets of Dale, most of them dressed in elven armor, and he understood.

The procession was far ahead of him now, and he hurried to catch up. It felt strange to be present for this, like he was intruding on something personal, something secretive. He had half a mind to turn and leave the place-- but he could hardly remember the winding path they’d taken through Mirkwood, and getting lost in these woods would mean certain death, especially when unarmed. At the very least, he made sure to keep a respectful distance from the center of the clearing.

Suddenly the singing died down, leaving its final note to ring through the otherwise silent forest. The elves all turned to face the middle of the clearing-- to face their king.

Thranduil stood in the midst of his subjects, dressed in a long tunic the color of a dove’s wings. A cloak was draped over his shoulders, trailing across the forest floor behind him. It seemed to be inlaid with dozens of tiny stars; no doubt that each of those points of light was a precious jewel, valuable beyond belief. The Elvenking’s crown, too, was one of white gems and silver. They glittered across his brow and at his temples, casting reflected moonlight over his pale face. For the first time since Bard had met Thranduil, he did not look angry, or condescending, or distant. He looked sorrowful, his features drawn in a way that made him appear ancient.

 _He has lived for hundreds of years, no doubt_ , Bard thought suddenly. _How much death has he seen?_

There was something knowing in Thranduil’s expression as he cast a glance around the congregation. As his gaze passed over the other elves present their heads would bow in deference, a murmur rising up from the crowd. Then the Elvenking began to speak, his voice clear and strong in the quiet forest. He spoke Sindarin, of course, which Bard barely understood a word of-- but he found himself moved by the melody of the language, its cadence an echo of the haunting song the elves had been singing.

Then, halfway through his speech, the king’s eyes drifted once more through the crowd and came to rest on Bard.

His heart felt like it had stopped in his chest. How had Thranduil managed to pick him out from the crowd so easily? At least he had the gall to look surprised. His voice died down for a moment and a ripple ran through the crowd, curious as to why the ceremony had stopped. Something like anger flashed across the Elvenking’s face, intense enough that Bard narrowly avoided flinching under that stare. Then, surprisingly, the anger melted away into something else. Resignation, maybe?

Smoothly, as if he had never stopped talking in the first place, Thranduil said a few more words to his people before turning, lantern in hand, and placing it on one of the cairns. The tree above was one of the largest in the clearing, its branches stretching like gnarled fingers into the canopy. Dappled light from the moon and stars shone through its leaves, giving the grave an unearthly appearance.

Whatever Thranduil had done, it was a signal that the ceremony was over; elves began to break away from the procession to stop in front of graves. Many of them placed their lanterns at the bases of the stone mounds, or directly on top of them, heads bowed respectfully. Some even clasped their hands in what appeared to be reverent prayer. Briefly, Bard wondered if elves prayed as men did. For all their differences, perhaps they were at least equal in that respect.

The group began to dwindle as the people of Mirkwood completed their silent rituals and left, disappearing into the dark depths of the forest. If any of them saw Bard, they did not comment.

At long last the Elvenking was alone. He stood motionless at the foot of the grave he had chosen, a single figure clothed in white against the backdrop of dark wood and leaves. There was something alluring about his presence, something bewitching. Bard spared only a moment of thought for the stories he’d heard of the elves and their fey powers, how they could ensnare men with weak minds, before he was moving forward.

“Would sleep not come to you, Dragonslayer?” Though Bard’s steps were near silent on the forest floor, Thranduil had heard him approaching immediately. Now his head was inclined to the side, awaiting his unexpected guest’s reply.

Bard stopped a few paces away. “...it did, for a time,” he said slowly. “But I do not sleep well, most nights.” It was something he had not admitted to anyone before.

“And so you followed us here.” Though the words were said without anger, Bard still felt a rush of guilt at them.

“I did not intend to intrude, My Lord.” He pressed a palm to his heart, then extended it, mimicking the typical elven gesture of respect.

He thought he heard a soft laugh, at that. Thranduil turned just enough that his face was visible, fixing Bard with one piercing blue eye. “Pleasantries are not necessary here, Bard,” he replied. It was the first time he had called the Lord of Dale by name. “We are equal, you and I.”

Bard was strangely moved by the statement. Perhaps it was because Thranduil rarely spared a compliment for anyone, and even when he did it was often barbed. The Elvenking spoke in double-edged swords. But now, in the oppressing quiet of this ancient forest, his normally icy demeanor seemed to have disappeared. It left Bard disoriented, unsure of how to react. In lieu of a response, he took Thranduil’s sudden warmth as a sign that he could move closer.

When they stood side by side, he was always struck by how tall Thranduil was. Bard was not a small man, and yet he felt dwarfed by the elf’s presence. Casting a quick glance to his right, he could see that Thranduil had returned to gazing at the grave at their feet. His face was smooth, unlined, but he looked impossibly older up close, as if the weight of the world rested on his shoulders. In some ways, Bard supposed, it did.

It was a long time before Thranduil spoke again. “I have not had to bury one of my kin in over a hundred years.”

Though his face was impassive, his words plain, an undercurrent of emotion ran through the words that made Bard’s chest ache. _A hundred years._ Bard himself was three and forty; his face was lined, his hair streaked with silver at the temples. He could feel the weight of those years already. For the elves, who could allow a hundred years or more to slip by without a moment’s thought, who could go entire lifetimes without seeing another of their kind die, the casualties suffered during the battle must have been devastating.

“...I am sorry.” He did not want to risk muddying his condolences with flowery words. The two of them stood quietly for a moment, allowing the weight of their conversation to sink in.

“When I walked along the beach, after I-- after the death of Smaug,” Bard began suddenly, wanting to fill the silence, “all I could see were the dead. And when I walked through the streets of Dale, once the battle was over, it hardly felt like a victory.”

Thranduil made a quiet noise of assent. “It never does.” He turned to look at Bard, his face grim. “That is the price you must pay, now that you have the crown.”

Bard had known that, of course, before he had been all but forced onto the throne, but that did not make it any easier to stomach. Especially not when he was reminded of what he had gone through-- what _all_ the people of Laketown had gone through-- almost every night.

“You dream of it, don’t you?”

He turned sharply, startled by how easily Thranduil had cut to the heart of his problems. At a loss for words, Bard simply nodded.

The Elvenking gave him a knowing look. “You will not escape such foul thoughts for some time.”

At least he was honest. “I just--” Bard looked down at his hands, at the calluses on his fingertips and the still healing wounds from where he’d gripped his bow. Where he’d held the Black Arrow in a painfully clenched fist, its dark metal cutting into his skin. “It seems unfair. So many others in Laketown have suffered more than I. Yet here I am, wallowing over how I have _nightmares_.” A bitter laugh escaped him before he could stop it. “For some, those nightmares are their reality.” He remembered his dream, where he’d seen his children die in front of him, powerless to stop it, and shuddered. Then he glanced at Thranduil, allowing himself a small, wan smile. “You must think me such a child,” Bard continued, “to worry over such trivial matters.”

Thranduil seemed to inspect him carefully. “You are no child,” he said finally. “You are quite old, for a man. I can see it in you.” His pale gaze roved upwards, moving from Bard’s chest, to neck, to mouth, before their eyes finally met. It felt like a physical touch, unexpectedly intimate. “As king, the pain of your people is your own. And I do not doubt that you have had your fair share of loss, in years past.” Then, as if suddenly conscious of their proximity, of the heat between them, the Elvenking turned away. When their eye contact broke, Bard felt as though he was being released from a spell.

Thranduil took a few graceful steps to his right, circling the cairn, effectively distancing himself. At the mention of loss he had become subdued. His gaze returned again and again to the lantern sitting delicately on the stones in front of them.

A thought dawned on Bard, then. He was both anxious and afraid to voice it. “Thranduil…” he started, choosing his words carefully. “Who is buried here?”

This time, the Elvenking did not look up. “It is the grave of my wife.”

Bard’s breath caught in his throat; he had not been expecting that answer, of all things. Guilt weighed heavy in his gut. “I--” He struggled to find the right words. “I’m sorry, it was wrong of me to--”

“Apologies are not necessary.” Thranduil did not sound angry-- just tired. Bard wasn’t sure if that was better, or worse. “It was long ago, and I have healed since then.”

 _But not completely_ , _I am sure_ , Bard mused. He was reminded of his own late wife, how he had grieved for her. In the first few years after her passing he felt her absence acutely; in those days his pain simmered just under the surface of his skin, demanding to be felt. Now it had diffused to a dull ache, like an old wound that became sore during the rainy season.

Perhaps that was how it felt for Thranduil as well: an ache that needed soothing. For some reason the thought made his stomach tie itself in knots.

Bard decided once again to speak his mind.

“When… when _my_ wife passed on,” he said, taking note of how the Elvenking shifted in surprised at his words, “It was nigh impossible to bear. I was reminded of her constantly: in my home, in my children. My girls take after her.” Bard smiled fondly, lifting his head to look at Thranduil. The man was watching him with rapt attention. “Perhaps it sounds naïve, but soon enough I realized that she would not want me to spend my days grieving for her. And I learned to find beauty elsewhere.” As he finished speaking, he suddenly felt incredibly self conscious; no doubt Thranduil had heard such talk hundreds of times over. For gods’ sake, he had been widowed for _longer_. Why was Bard presuming to share something new, something that did not sound childish and ignorant and condescending? A flush crept up his neck and he looked away, avoiding the piercing blue eyes that were still fixed on his face.

Before he could say anything more, he heard the rustle of Thranduil’s slow, deliberate steps on the forest floor. It sounded suspiciously like he was giving Bard the option to keep his distance, by moving this way-- like he was approaching a skittish animal. But Bard stood his ground, and after only a moment, the two of them were standing chest to chest.

“Find beauty elsewhere,” Thranduil echoed. Bard could feel the tickle of his breath against his neck, barely suppressing a shiver. When he met the Elvenking’s eyes, they were full of some intense yet indescribable emotion.

Then one pale, thin hand came to rest at the nape of Bard’s neck. Thranduil tilted his head forward, white blond hair falling over his shoulder like a sheet of starlight.

Their mouths fit together perfectly, a press of chapped lips to surprisingly soft ones. Thranduil smelled of fresh rain and wildflowers; he was warmer than he looked, nothing like the cold light he seemed to exude. Bard felt lightheaded being this close to him. He had half a mind that he was in the midst of some dream, and that at any moment he would wake up to find himself still in bed, staring up at the darkened ceiling.

The kiss ended far too quickly for his tastes. When Thranduil pulled away he nearly followed, leaning forward, seeking further affections.

“Bard,” the Elvenking breathed. The very sound of his voice made Bard weak. “I am glad that I have you.”

And just like that, he found that perhaps the dull ache of loss was bearable, after all.

**Author's Note:**

> Every once in awhile my love for Tolkien's work resurfaces, and then I spend days gushing over all these characters that I care so much about ❤ So here's this fic, which will possibly have a sequel??? I dunno????? Stay tuned for more Hot Sad Dads (tm), kings of Middle Earth edition


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